


falling over me like stars

by taizi



Series: spring doves [2]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Growing Up Together, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: They’re both bigger than they were the first time they slept this way, longer limbs and wider shoulders and, in Moomin’s case, more girth. It takes some maneuvering. Their feet all but dangle off the edge unless they curl up a bit. They used to fall asleep on their respective sides of the bed and wake up a comfortable tangle of limbs; now they just skip ahead to that part.(Mama asked him once if he’d like a new frame, or perhaps for a second one to be moved in so they wouldn’t have to share anymore, but Moomin emphatically said no, thank you. And Mama just looked at him like she knew a secret and went back to fixing breakfast with a peaceful smile, and didn’t bring it up again.)





	falling over me like stars

At first, Moomin isn’t sure what woke him.

One moment he’s dreaming and the next he’s in his bedroom, staring through the dark at the ceiling and experiencing that sideways bereftness of being suddenly transplanted from an imagined place to a real one.

It must still be late, if the dark of the room is any indication.

The house creaks a bit as Moomin lays there listening, the way hard-worked houses sometimes do, its bones settling after another long day of sheltering lots of lively people within its walls. The air is very cool, smells like damp earth and ozone, but the bed is warm. And it would be, with two bodies tucked beneath a shared blanket.

Moomin tips his head to the side, cheek pressed against the pillow, so his view is filled with Snufkin sleeping bare inches away.

That’s right, Moomin thinks comfortably, teetering on the blurry line between sleep and wake, there was a storm.

The winds were something terrible, and the rain drove down on the roof like thunder. He’d been so _glad_ Moominmamma had managed to convince Snufkin, in her patient, implacable way, to stay inside with them for a few nights until the weather cleared up again.

It always took some doing, but there’s really no holding out against Mama. She’s probably the only creature in the valley more stubborn than Moomin’s favorite mumrik-- and sure enough, Snufkin had lost that particular battle of wills.

He was good-natured about it, though.

“You moomins are certainly a worrisome lot,” he’d said without heat, rolling his tent up with deft hands so they could stow it inside for safe-keeping. “It must be exhausting, concerning yourselves with a tramp like me.”

He was smiling, faint and fond, and flicked a glance at Moomin from under the brim of his floppy, flowered hat. No hard feelings, that glance said, intimate for all its knowing. So Moomin smiled right back.

“We’re built for it,” he had replied smartly, rewarded with the surprised sound of Snufkin’s laughter.

Moomin smiles again now, watching the rise and fall of his friend’s chest, the artless tumble of his thicket-like hair.

They’re both bigger than they were the first time they slept this way, longer limbs and wider shoulders and, in Moomin’s case, more girth. It takes some maneuvering. Their feet all but dangle off the edge unless they curl up a bit. They used to fall asleep on their respective sides of the bed and wake up a comfortable tangle of limbs; now they just skip ahead to that part.

(Mama asked him once if he’d like a new frame, or perhaps for a second one to be moved in so they wouldn’t have to share anymore, but Moomin emphatically said no, thank you. And Mama just looked at him like she knew a secret and went back to fixing breakfast with a peaceful smile, and didn’t bring it up again.)

Suffice to say, tonight is shaped like all of his other favorite nights, comfortable and intimate and cozy. Snufkin is here, one hand buried in the thick fur at Moomin’s chest, radiating heat like a small furnace. Moomin doesn’t have any strange cricks in his neck or back from twisting into an odd angle in his sleep. None of his limbs are cramping, he isn’t cold, he isn’t thirsty, he was having a pleasant enough dream, for all that he can’t really remember more than a vague outline--

So what woke him?

Moomin frowns as minutes slink by and no answer seems forthcoming. He can’t even toss and turn without dislodging his friend, and just laying there, still and wide-awake, feels like _torture._

And then Snufkin’s fingers tighten in his fur, almost to the point of pain. The mumrik gives a little jerk, and his head turns, and Moomin can see his expression.

“Oh, no,” he says in dismay, sitting up quickly. “Snufkin, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

He doesn’t so much reach out to Snufkin as just lay a hand on him, they’re already so close. He’s trembling, so slightly Moomin couldn’t tell until he feels it, and it’s enough to make Moomin’s whole chest ache.

“Wake up,” he insists again. He tries to work loose the fingers in his fur, if only so he can hold them instead. Moomin doesn’t want to raise his voice, not at Snufkin, but he’s getting more desperate with every second he has to watch that dear face twist with pain. “Those stars you love spilled their light into our room to keep you company. You’ll feel better in no time if you just open your eyes.”

Moomin gives him a little shake, and that does the trick. When Snufkin wakes up, it’s not with a wild start, the way Moomin sometimes flees a nightmare, but a little jolt. His eyes fly open and his mouth parts in a gasp, but he’s so quiet that Moomin might have slept through the whole thing if Snufkin hadn’t accidentally pulled on his fur.

That’s an unhappy thought.

“There you are,” he says brightly. “I should’ve known all I’d have to do is mention the stars and you’d come right back.”

The room is a study in silver and stardust, every dark corner touched with some of the faint light pouring through the window, and even Snufkin looks softer here. All of his earthen tones washed out to blues and white, the line of his body something surprisingly fragile for the rough-and-tumble vagabond Moomin knows.

He retracts his hand and murmurs, “Sorry, Moomintroll. Did I hurt you?”

Moomin’s a little sorry he let go, if anything, but he smooths out the ruffled fur with a paw. “Of course you didn’t. I bet you wouldn’t even know how.”

He tugs the blanket up over their laps, and Snufkin disentangles their tails before scooting in. They lean against the headboard together, the only two awake in this big, full house, and Moomin knows what it sounds like when Snufkin is trying to sort things out in his head, so he doesn’t interrupt the thoughtful silence.

Then Snufkin says, “I dreamed I got lost.”

Moomin jumps a little at that, surprised. “You’ve _never_ gotten lost.”

“Maybe that’s why it was so-- alarming.” He’d been about to use a different word, Moomin thinks. “But I was lost. The road was gone. The forest was empty, even of birds, so there was no one I could ask for directions. The sky was overcast, so I couldn’t even use the stars to guide me.”

His voice is quiet, the same voice he uses to recite poetry or tell mysterious tales, but the wonder is gone from it. In its place is a festering wound of fear, something dull instead of sharp, a persisting ache rather than a single swift blow.

“The seasons changed, and I never found my way back,” Snufkin adds in a short, clipped tone. “I knew I wouldn’t see you again. And then I woke up.”

Moomin can feel a hollow sort of horror at the very idea of Snufkin out there alone in the world somewhere, lost and unable to make his way back home to the valley. What a terrible idea! What an awful nightmare, to come slinking in here and attach itself to Snufkin and poison his pleasant dreams!

“It wasn’t real,” Moomin says, not sure which of them he’s hoping to reassure. He doesn’t think Snufkin is in the mood to be grabbed, even for feel-better a hug, so he keeps his paws in his lap. “You’ve come back every year. Every spring. Why would that change?”

“It was just a dream,” Snufkin agrees. But he’s pressed against Moomin’s shoulder and his eyes are faraway. If it was just anything he wouldn’t still be so shaken.

So Moomin goes on, “You tell me yourself the birds are chatty no matter where you go! They hardly leave you alone once they realize they can pick a conversation out of you if they’re obnoxious enough. I bet your dream was a wish they’d find someone else to bother for a change.”

There it is-- the barest hint of a smile. Heartened, Moomin keeps it up.

“And just because some clouds got in the way, you’d give up on the stars? _You,_ Snuf? When we first met, we talked about stars for _hours._ I thought you’d never run out of praises for them!”

Snufkin huffs a reluctant laugh, and then presses his lips together, but he’s smiling plainly now.

“Besides, even if the birds all deserted you, and the stars all burned out, you’re forgetting one important thing.” Sandwiched side-by-side as they are, Snufkin’s head pillowed on Moomin’s shoulder, it’s easy to say the words since he doesn’t have those bright brown eyes to get distracted by. So Moomin looks up at the ceiling and says, “If you didn’t come back, I’d go looking for you. I know you need your space, but you’ve never broken a promise to me. If you promised to come back and you didn’t, I would find you. I’d search everywhere until I found you. The way you feel about the world when you travel is the way I feel about you when you come home. There’s no way I’d ever let you stay lost, Snufkin.”

For a moment, Moomin feels good about that. He thinks he managed to explain his feelings pretty clearly, and hopefully it made Snufkin feel better-- but then horror quickly washes out the satisfaction, because Snufkin is trembling again in an all-too-familiar way.

“Oh-- oh no, don’t _cry,_ Snufkin! I’m sorry, please don’t cry!” Stricken, Moomin tries to twist to look at his friend properly, but Snufkin stays stubbornly pressed against his side, shaking with tears, eyes hidden in Moomin’s fur. Paws flapping uselessly, Moomin rambles, “Well, no, that isn’t right-- you should cry if you need to, of course you should! But I’ll definitely start crying, too, and then _you’ll_ be the one comforting _me_ and that won’t do at all!”

"I'll hibernate this year," Snufkin mumbles, muffled, but Moomin still freezes at the words.

"You'll stay all winter? Here, with me?" he says. Snufkin nods. "And leave in the spring instead?" Moomin realizes, joy tempered by dismay. 

"Leave next winter instead," the mumrik says, the best thing he's  _ever_ said, handing Moomin a hundred presents in a few short words. "I'll stay for that long. I want to try."

"Because you're afraid?" Moomin gives into the urge to hold him, wrapping both arms around him and hugging him tight. He remembers being younger, looking up at Snufkin and then looking level at him, but he's just a bit taller now. It makes hugging him even  _nicer_ somehow, not that he's ever come out and said so-- he just takes any and every excuse to bundle the smaller creature up and tuck him under his chin, for as long as he can get away with. "What if you're not afraid in a few days? You'll be sorry you promised it then."

"Not because of that." Snufkin seems to take shelter in the fact that Moomin can't see his face. Moomin wonders if he sometimes gets distracted by eyes he thinks are pretty, too. That's a nice thought. "I've seen a lot of the world, you know. A lot of it has changed. Even  _you_ have changed. It's a part of life, I think, of nature, that nothing stays the same forever. I'd like to see if I can change, too."

There's a lot of-- of  _something_ building up in Moomin's chest, something that feels the way the sun looks when it dawns. Bold and fiery and too big to fit in the space it belongs to, spilling light across the hills and fields and rivers, spilling color, spilling warmth. He doesn't know what to do with all of it until he knows  _exactly_ what to do with all of it, and Snufkin looks up just in time for their noses to meet. 

It must not be a surprise to him, because he laughs, and bumps back with his smaller snout, and oh, that is  _wonderful._ Moomin is delighted. He never wants to move from this spot. 

"I've always loved moomin kisses," Snufkin says softly. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is rather pale, but his smile more than makes up for it. "How sweet."

Moomin's heart is racing, and he's never known hearts could race with happiness instead of excitement or fear or nerves. It's just one more thing Snufkin has taught him, perhaps the  _best_ thing. He's sorry that a storm and a nightmare brought them here, but the sky is clear now, and the room is full of whispered voices and empty hands being held and a few more kisses just for the sake of exploring something so new in this love that's so old. Moomin would like to see any bad dream leave a mark on them now.

"What else do you love about moomins?" he asks, hoping he might hear a few things on Snufkin's list that he identifies with. 

Snufkin hums fondly, eyes very close and very distracting, as usual. He touches Moomin's cheek and says, "Lean in close to me, and I'll tell you."

**Author's Note:**

> . . .and yes, i do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses [falling over me like stars](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/277023-all-night-i-streched-my-arms-across-him-rivers-of)  
> 


End file.
